


In Here//Sanctuary//Out There

by FatalCookies



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-06-10 16:52:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6965293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatalCookies/pseuds/FatalCookies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn’t common, to be a Pearl without an owner. </p><p>(There is, of course, no such thing. Not practically speaking, anyway—all Pearls go somewhere and are beholden to someone. Otherwise, she supposes, there wouldn’t be much point.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Here/

**Author's Note:**

> Once again coming in with self-indulgent fan!gem fic.
> 
> In which a defect is not always a mistake, and Nacre is shipped off to her permanent assignment.

The order for her creation must have confused those who received and processed the commission. She wakes up for the first time with a slight sense of befuddlement. 

It isn’t a pressing question. It isn’t a situation without precedent, and certainly isn’t enough of a conundrum to make her ask. But it still isn’t common,to be a Pearl without an owner. It leaves her with a quiet, lingering cautiousness, a precarious wavering doubt that asks,  _are you sure_?

(There is, of course, no such thing. Not practically speaking, anyway—all Pearls go  _somewhere_ and are beholden to  _someone_. Otherwise, she supposes, there wouldn’t be much point.)

—

Checkpoints aid with quality control, ensure that orders are processed fully and appropriately, and that any flaws or defects can be disclosed to the commissioner upon delivery. Some high-end Pearls go through a perfunctory examination upon emergence, and some will go through an examination just prior to shipping—but in-between, they like every other Pearl must go through the scan. For her, this will be the only factory checkpoint to pass.

As she goes through, the specs flash before her eyes, and some things, she knows already:

“Taper: 0 [ALERT: OVERRIDE. MANUAL DESIG.: NACRE].” A flat gem. A flawed gem, in point of fact—she lacks the spherical shape that would denote a perfect Pearl. The override suggests that the flaw is not so severe to guarantee her rejection, and the manual designation suggests, in fact, that the flaw is intended from the start. A few things, without being told them, she knows: a cheaper sub-set of Pearl manufacturing, a Nacre is more frequently used for functional purposes than for ornamentation. 

For similar reasons—utility over ostentation—the listed design parameters are, in a word, sparse. 

“Placement: Cranial-Frontal;” a gem set above the eyes, with hair swept around to display it. Add on, “Appearance Mod: BASIC (Palette base: WHT-PNK’. Insignia: WD).” Though she is tinted pink even without the aid of appearance modifiers, it is clear she was meant to echo an aesthetic tending towards white. White Diamond’s insignia sits well upon her.

And then there is “Custom Mod: N/A.” That part sets her a little ill at ease. What an  _odd_  idea that is, to be designed after no-one in particular. She does know some things, after all, and she knows that Pearls are meant to echo the appearance of their proprietor. So, if there is no one for her to look like, then does she look like no one at all? 

(Of course, she knows better than to fidget... but if she did, she would run her hands down her arms, rubbing feeling into the scary smoothness where she lacks frill or filigree. A single fingertip of hers twitches, but that is all that remains of the traitorous temptation.)

Most concerning of all: the designation which flashes before her eyes, and remains forever imprinted onto her mind with photographic clarity. She will spend the entire duration of transit trying to make sense of the contradictory, “Commissioner: Rhodonite FAC-36KV CUT-3YY” and “Proprietor: N/A (ARENA Deta32Gamma12. Superintendent: Commiss).”

She can count on two hands the number of minutes she has been conscious, but she knows some things. She knows it is not unheard of, to be a Pearl without an owner. What she doesn’t know is what that means, for how she ought to be.

The lights flicker off and leave her in momentary, startling darkness. Scan complete. The screen opens before her and, not knowing who yet to obey, she obeys all. She steps forward.

—

There is one other thing. In amidst the flashes, a small detail of the order stood out. 

“Ability Mod: OFFENSIVE/DEFENSIVE TECHNIQUE (Proficiency: Assessment/Additional Cultivation Required).” 

She isn’t sure all that it entails, but the detail is a shard of solidity in a sea of nebulous ambiguity. She may echo the looks and movements and airs of no one at all, but surely, a modification such as this—it means she is to serve some purpose. A modification, a trait—it gives her the first faint grasp of how she will fit.

—

Rhodonite stands nigh as tall as the Quartzes Nacre saw in passing, who shook the ground with their steps, and made her cautious in her own movements. This gem is a whole new world of terrifying, for though her size is only just comparable, her postures are rigid enough to challenge, Nacre thinks, the Diamonds themselves. 

Without keeping count, Nacre notes each second of silence as it passes. She studies the ground as her commissioner studies her. 

There are, she has presently learned, two assessments that each Pearl faces, which mean the difference between induction into the intended assignment, or... Well. There are a few things to be done with a rejected Pearl, but even the kinder alternatives would not guarantee secure placement, and without assignment—she dare not contemplate it. She has already been scanned and had her design parameters verified, any irregularities and liabilities marked. Now, it is simply a matter of being approved by the proprietor. 

(Only, she has none. In this case, in her case, her commissioner and overseer will decide.)

“A touch rosier than I anticipated,” Rhodonite observes at last. “This isn’t the arena of Pink Diamond, after all.”

Nacre does not dare move. Her carrier, a Chalcedony, smoothly relies, “The secondary palette, as specified in your order, Commander.”

Another long pause goes by.

“Well. She will stand out from the arena, at least, I will give it that. Diamonds forbid the recruits can’t make out the stances they ought to be learning.” A faint scoff. “Yes. She’ll do nicely. Thank you—you may go.”

Perhaps it is a reaction inherent to Pearls, or perhaps the makers simply make certain that their Pearls know the motions of exchange. Rhodonite waves a hand, which the Chalcedony takes rightly as a dismissal; she bows, and backs up a precious few steps. But in the motion, Nacre sees the precise opposite command, and as her deliverer steps away, she steps forward, sweeping herself swiftly before her new—her— _overseer_.

She keeps her eyes down, and leaves them down until the heel of Rhodonite’s boot turns upon the ground.

“Come,” she says, “I will show you your assignment.”

Obedient and full of some big, anxious, lighter-than-air feeling—hope, perhaps?—Nacre follows.

—

She had been busy keeping the proper postures about her. Even then, if she had thought to lift her gaze, she would have not dared lift it more than to fleetingly glance at Rhodonite’s face, only to know, to recognize, and to show that she has seen, and immediately known her place. 

She had not thought to look just a little higher, until this moment. She is glad she did not—even now, knowing she must follow as she is told, the sight is captivating enough that she itches to stop in her tracks, and gaze, and gaze.

The warp pad activates behind her in a flash of blue light, over near as soon as it begins—and Chalcedony is gone the way they both came. Nacre feels suddenly and certainly that a door has been closed behind her, leaving only the way forward.

And what a path it is.

The platform upon which Nacre stands stretches out to either side of the warp, and back another fifty meters or so. Around the outer edge are eight great pillars, four either side of her. Towards the center frame, a great wall rises up from the stone floor, reaching high, high above her head. Stairs frame the wall on either side; you would have to stack five of her, one on top of the other, in order to touch the first landing alone. Another five would see you to the top of the second flight, whose edge she can just make out from where she stands.

Upon the wall, a behemoth of a mural stands: four diamonds, pink, blue, yellow, and white all. They seem impossible to touch, for their symbolism and their size, all, and it seems to her in that moment that the highest point of the white diamond glints, awe-striking and all-seeing.

She wonders if the Diamonds are that tall, and feels herself grow weak at the knees to think of such a thing—a gem so vast and grand as that. 

Half a moment is too long to gawk; Nacre takes half of half that, to absorb, and scurry on.

The steps leading up to the arena are vast and wide, stone-made and immense enough to support the thundering footsteps of quartzes. She keeps her gaze upon her feet, counting each step that she goes. Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty to the landing—one hundred at each side, then, and two hundred total, and another set—as she suspects it—at the other side of the arena. Four hundred steps in total, a case representative for each Diamond--though she knows, and has heard again today, that this is the arena of White Diamond. Built in her honor even as it acknowledges politely her unparalleled peers.

Nacre does not pause at the first landing, but she does dare to lift her head and look. She sees herself level with the centerfold of all the diamonds’ points, and she shakes, and goes quickly after the trailing steps of the Rhodonite, her overseer. 

Perhaps that first attempt ought to have been premonition enough. But once more, at the top of the stair, she looks about herself. From here, the planet’s surface seems dizzily far away; if she looks outward, the light borne of warps can be seen arcing high across the atmosphere, catching oddly the light of their nearby star. 

The pillars around her reach twice again as high as the highest point upon which she stands. They support the great overhang which shields the steps from the elements. Carved into the eave is a triangular cut, into which flits a smaller echo of the same great mural now below her feet. White, Blue, Yellow, Pink, each one in its place, and always, always, too far away and far, far too grand to touch. Nacre feels that even reaching might tip her off the edge of the platform and send her careening to the floor below; a soft wave of vertigo comes over her, and she presses her toes down, to stay where she is. She does  _not_  lift her hand.

“ _Pearl_.”

Nacre startles, but quickly turns back to her overseer, head dipped. She murmurs no apology—the words  _do not speak unless spoken to_  occur to her with sudden vivid clarity—and Rhodonite seems placated.

“You will have more than enough time to grow accustomed to it,” she says brusquely, gesturing vaguely with a hand. There is a hexagonal opening which leads through to the other side, a place without eaves or overhangs, judging by the light of it. Nacre lowers her head another fraction, squinting against the change from dark into light. “I have no intentions of putting you to use before I am quite certain you can perform. Though I requested basic proficiency, I will demand utter certainty in your abilities.” Rhodonite turns, her eyes slightly narrowed, her chin lifted. “Do you understand what your task is to be?”

“I am to do what you tell me.”

“Quite. And?”

Nacre is not sure what to say, besides.  She thinks—knows, really—it must have something to do with the custom skills requested, which she has, and knows. But as to how those skills shall be performed...

After a few moments of silence, Rhodonite sighs. “Typical,” she says, and Nacre curls her shoulders in proper deference, and as well, in a touch of honest shame. “I can’t have expected better, for ordering a half-baked Pearl.”

On the other side of the passageway is the arena; another hundred steps down, with stairs at the other side, and a shallow rise of seating framing the circle. Below is the floor itself, empty just now, but spanning wide across. The space is immense, and Nacre feels small inside of it.

The arena sports four pillars at each corner with stone-made likenesses of each Diamond, and floating four-diamond symbols above each entryway. But also, it is plain, scant of adornment, clean, and lovely. There is something comforting in it, she thinks; her unadorned arms and legs and waist no longer feel quite so terrifyingly smooth. 

The arena grounds are wide and flat and round, and she is reminded of her own gem, where it sits upon her forehead. 

It strikes her very suddenly. This arena—it is her owner, and it is to what—to where—she belongs. 

(The words  _half-baked_  and  _cheap alternative_  seem far away, just now.)

“No matter,” Rhodonite says, then, and begins her descent down the stair. Nacre faithfully follows, though she finds it difficult now to tear her eyes from the scene before her. “You will prove yourself proficient before you are permitted to fully exercise your duties,” Rhodonite continues. “That  _should_  be sooner rather than later.”

Meaning it, Nacre murmurs, “I am happy to serve.”

“I should hope so,” Rhodonite says dryly. “Come. Quickly, now—let us calibrate you to the arena mechanics. We will have you summoning from the arsenal soon enough. And then, we will see about you.”

—

Rhodonite takes her leave several spans later, and Nacre remains upon the floor of the arena, posed as she ever should be. Fingers crossed together, palms touching, back straight, holding position. She could, conceivably, stay here for hours in perfect stillness. It would, in fact, be expected.

Only...

Barely a minute has gone by since the distant sound of the warp filled her senses up, and oh, but this place—this is her place, like any Pearl has her gem. This, this is her maker and her reason. Duty, or loyalty, or warmth or  _something_  fills her up, until she fidgets with it.

Cautiously, she drops her postures. She knows she is alone, but still she passes a look over her shoulder, for certainty’s sake.

And then she walks to one edge of the arena, and sets her sights across it. Squares her shoulders and her chin.

“One,” she counts, taking one step, then, “Two, three, four...”

She counts steps, until she can walk the arena forwards, backwards, with her eyes closed and with her steps unfaltering. She walks until she knows always where she stands upon the floor, even when stumbling, even when her steps are larger, smaller—even when she closes her eyes, and spreads her arms, and spins until she should lose all sense of the stars above.


	2. /Sanctuary/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Nacre begins her training, and she expands her conversational vocabulary.

Nacre is not without an owner. She is simply a Pearl whose owner is not a gem.

(There is a sort of comfort in that knowledge, in point of fact; she had been so, so afraid that she would not know how to be. And perhaps she is still closer to being no-one than other Pearls, who at least have a gem to pose after, and who they can beautifully echo. But that does not matter, because she is for this place, and that sort of belonging is warm and devotional. It gives her a place. And what more could anyone want, besides?)

—

After being calibrated to the arena, it takes no more than a rotation to learn all the mechanics of operation. And, once done, she can respond to the needs of any gem who enters.

She practices the most exquisite subtlety. A dip of her head to call forth the maces from the arsenal. A slightest turn of her heel calls upon the collection of spears in their employ, her eyelid’s flutter, the swords. From the floor each one rises in fine compact circles, before the selection then fans out for the choosing. 

It is a beautiful and incremental dance, and she is glad to be of service, both to be of use to the gems who will come, and as well, to the arena itself which requires the movement of a hand like hers.

(It is probably too much credit to give herself, but she does not mean it as a haughty, arrogant thing. It is a duty, and one gladly served. The arena a grand thing, and she, the instrument of its operation. She is happy, and a little proud, as she thinks the luckiest of Pearls are—proud to be a part of a thing grander and prouder than themselves.)

(The second rotation when the off-hours come by again, and when Rhodonite takes her leave, and when there is nothing but the arena, the sky above, and herself... then, Nacre walks the floors by memory, her eyes set high above, somewhere else. And when she has walked every inch of the floor, she takes a turn or two, settles a hand upon one of the corner pillars, and slowly, slowly slides down to the ground. 

She looks up at the stars, and settles her cheek on the cool stone. Beneath her feet, stone, beneath her hands, stone. She nuzzles her temple against the pillar, snuggling in beneath the statue of White Diamond, herself. And she closes her eyes, all but melting into the arena’s strong, supporting hold.

She stands a thousand feet above the surface of the planet, floating—flying—and she will not fall with this great stone behemoth to catch her.)

—

“You,” Rhodonite explains, “have been instilled with the knowledge of varying levels of technique, given a number of weapons types.”  She narrows her eyes, before finally selecting a slender sword from the circle that Nacre has just helped to call from the arena grounds. “Supposedly,” she clarifies, her tone turning sharply from matter-of-fact to cool. Nacre immediately pulls herself up an impossible fraction straighter. 

At last, Rhodonite turns to face her again. Nacre dare not look her in the eye. In their downward sweep, her eyes find the white, glinting edge of the blade.

“You are to exemplify the technique of each weapon. You will be able to perform at varying levels to cater to the training needs of our recruits. You will know what techniques to utilize at any given level and be able to perform those techniques, such that our recruits may test their skills, properly, against a form that will be predictable, and without any messy edges.” Rhodonite lifts her chin. “As such, you will demonstrate each and every one of the expected levels of proficiency exactly to the level at which you are assigned at any given spar. You must know _all_ of them, and perform each when called upon. Am I quite clear?”

Nacre dips her head further, murmurs a token “Yes,” and she _should_  close her eyes. But now that her gaze has fallen upon the sword, she cannot quite bring herself to look away. It is brighter a white than anything she has seen before, and the slender delicacy of the weapon makes her think of fragile things. 

(Some knowledge, given to her long before she knew herself, tells her the true potency of the object. Angles and velocities at which to cut, slides, stabs, and a myriad of maneuvers which would sooner cut a gem than break the sword into brittle slivers. Slender and delicate it is, but if it is fragile, then it is the quickest, and most potently dangerous fragile thing imaginable.)

“Good,” Rhodonite says—crisply, but sounding, for the moment, satisfied. Nacre stares, rapt, as she flips the pommel in her deep pink hand, and lays the flat of the blade across her arm. She proffers the weapon.

Nacre hesitates, momentarily unbelieving. Her hand trembles the slightest bit as she reaches out to take it.

Mistaking the quiver, Rhodonite says, “I am well aware of the reservations that all too many gems have made it their business to share with me. Let me be clear: you are not here to fight. You are not a soldier. You are, in point of fact, barely even a _Pearl_ —and your duty is nothing more than to move the sword in the way the training dictates. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” Nacre murmurs, as the handle settles into her palm, and the weight of the blade feels, to her, as though it could be a part of her own projection.

“Very well.” Slipping back a step, Rhodonite claps her hands hard and sharply together. “Demonstrate. Level one, basic. Start.”

—

The heavier weapons which require blunt force—those, she is exempt from wielding. But the lighter items of the arsenal...those, she must know. Those, she makes her practice with, as Rhodonite watches on with sharp, appraising eyes.

Nacre likes the swords best of all, perhaps because it was the first weapon she ever held, and because when Rhodonite instructed her to begin, the movement fell from her with utter ease, as though the _parry, parry, thrust_ of her arm were written in the laws of physics.

The more advanced movements feel like photons breaking free of the great cluttering light of stars. It feels—it feels—like dancing.

It has taken only the one rotation to move through all of the sets, and demonstrate them to Rhodonite’s satisfaction. And when it is over, the gem actually starts to _smile_. 

“We will continue practice on the higher levels,” she says, “to ensure proper and timely execution of all movements. Such things will come with continued practice. I trust, in no great amount of time, you will be fully functional and technically proficient.” 

There is a pause, as she considers. Then, she reaches out. Though Nacre’s only outward reaction is a blink, her insides jolt as Rhodonite touches her fingertips beneath her chin, and lifts her gaze, studying her face.

“Still. I had anticipated this to be a much more laborious process. I shall have to send my compliments to the maker.” 

Nacre actually risks an expression—the softest, barest hint of lift upon her bottom lip—before she drops her gaze, demure, obedient, and... happy. She relishes the slight nudge that Rhodonite gives her chin, a turn of the pad of her thumb which leaves upon her skin the imprint of approval. 

“There is no better way to train than by example,” Rhodonite says. “I shall call upon some recruits to help see you through your levels. We shall begin with you at the soonest opportunity.”

“I am happy to serve,” Nacre says, and—as ever—means it.

—

Nacre has seen Rhodonite skeptical, even critical, but she has never, until this moment, seen her downright frustrated. 

Even if the feeling is not directed at her, it still drives her. Move faster, pose, blade tip to the ground and hands together, keep your eyes down. Another mid-level spar flashes by and ends the same; a clear opening, an exacting stab, halting mere centimeters before the chest of a much larger and much more imposing gem. Retract. Hands on the pommel, blade down, eyes down, heels together, posture perfect.

“For pity’s sake,” Rhodonite snaps, her voice lifting, “stop letting the Pearl _win_!”

And the gem in question—an Iolite—grimaces her frustration, turns away, and throws down her sword. It clatters with an unceremonious ricochet and cries out with a stuttering metallic chime. Nacre is quick to dart after it. But as her hand wraps around the pommel, she spares a glance up and upward.

From this extreme angle, it is hard to make out much beyond the massive fists and broad shoulders, or at best, the strong and sturdy jaw. What possesses her to think she can look at the Iolite’s expression, and read it, and offer some apologies without it even being her place...

Besides, the Iolite is already stalking off, her demeanor stormy. Nacre lowers her gaze again, and takes up the weapon, and delivers it back to the arena arsenal.

As the circle of blades descends into the floor, Nacre catches the disdainful shake of Rhodonite’s head, and the muttering utterance of “ _Sub Quartzes and their tantrums_ ,” and something about the way she says it makes Nacre feel like making apologies.

—

She performs lower levels. And then, she trains with Rhodonite and the gems assigned to her.

And off-hours, she calls up the swords from the arena floor, selects her favorite (the slender one of glinting white she first was offered) and she practices. Sometimes, she even calls up a projection of herself, a white-eyed replica that meets her motion for motion. 

Sometimes, she sneaks in a flourish. A spin, a flick of the wrist, a toss of her head. She does not place her feet, but glide. She trains—she _dances—_ until every fiber of her sings with exhilaration.

—

One evening, under the stars, she could swear she hears... something. The distant chime of the warp pad activating, or the flicker of a footstep. 

Nacre cuts her projection, and takes her pose. She stands, and waits. She forces herself to stillness even though her hands sit a hair’s breadth from trembling.

An hour passes and there is nothing else to hear. She sets her shoulders.

“I am not yet technically proficient,” she whispers. It is a mantra meant to remind her of her direction, and where she still has to go. She dips her chin, pushes her lips hard together, and with a flash of conjuring light from her gem, begins again.

—

The cycle repeats. Rhodonite starts her on new recruits, and she keeps her expression careful and blank, her movements, precise and crisp, and Rhodonite passes new recruits as she sees their performance improve under her tutelage and instruction.

In the off-hours, Nacre trains herself. Under the scrutinizing eye of their commander, Nacre trains against the others. Including, still, the Iolite.

The violet gem keeps her lips tight, she notices. She works with Nacre on the lower-mid levels, and Nacre does learn some things, and Nacre, she is something like grateful for it. But there is one agonizing moment each and every day when they reach the next set, and inevitably, Nacre’s sword finds its way past Iolite’s defenses.

Nacre briefly considers simply giving her the battle. Simply not moving fast enough, or failing to grasp the moment.

Then she considers what might happen if she were seen to perform less-than-diligently. That single possibility is enough to quiet all of her wishful thinking, and the majority, too, of the incessant desire to apologize.

—

The only words Nacre has ever said to any gem besides Rhodonite are, “Do you wish to engage in combat?” “Please select a weapon,” and “I am happy to be of service.” Besides that, as general announcement, she will also recite level set, if it is called for. 

She does not think, actually, about what gems have said to _her_. Not until the Iolite mumbles a token “Thank you,” one day when Nacre presents her, same as she has ever done, with her weapons selection.

Nacre glances up, too stunned to help it. The Iolite meets her gaze steadily. _Why is she speaking to me why is she looking at me_ — _?_ darts with fleeting terror across her mind before she remembers herself, and quickly drops her chin and gaze, both.

They go through the set. Nacre, as always, makes it past her defenses.

—

And then, it happens again. After-hours, Nacre trains, and has been training for hours when she hears, suddenly, the unmistakable shuffle of a footstep. 

She freezes, cuts the projection, and poses. And there she stays for a short eternity, perhaps a full minute, before she hears another step, and another. As gracefully as she can, she turns to face the sound.

The Iolite enters in from the near stair, and clears her throat. 

“Hey,” she says. “I, uh. Sorry to interrupt.”

There is nothing to interrupt, Nacre knows, and wants to say. Nothing that should have _needed_  interrupting, at least. The thought, _It is after hours_  occurs to her, but then, she has not been instructed to say such things. Her hands grip the pommel a spot tighter.

“May I be of service?” she asks. It is not a phrase she has used before, in so many words, but it does not seem wrong to say, either.

At first, the Iolite shakes her head. “No, I...” she starts, stops, and seems to reconsider. “Maybe. Yes, actually. You’re...” Nacre blinks as the Iolite shifts restlessly, a gentle frown settling between her brows. “You really... know your technique. I was watching you just now, and you’re. Um. Good.” A beat, then, “You actually seemed—this is going to sound crazy, but—you really looked like you were enjoying yourself, just now.”

Nacre has not been alive very long, but she cannot imagine anything in that time which might have prepared her for this interaction. She blinks, and realizes then that she has looked up, and gawked for at least half a moment too long. She forces her chin down and recites, her voice quiet and quivering, “I am not yet technically proficient, as I should be.”

“Right. Yeah. Apparently, me neither.” 

She forces herself not to look, but she can see from where she keeps her eyes upon the ground, the way Iolite lifts an arm, the change of her posture. Rubbing at the back of her neck. “About that. You’re good. Obviously, you perform the technique, I get it, that’s the whole point of you. So, you... you probably know what—what I’m getting at is—you—” She gives a frustrated huff of a noise. “I can’t beat you,” she mumbles. “I’m not a complete clod, I’m obviously missing something. And when I came in after-hours one day to work off some steam, and, well, I caught you at this, and figured I might get some clue from watching. Ha, guess I’m a little desperate at this point. I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

It is a lot to take in. But there is another phrase, one that is close enough to her approved vocabulary, that Nacre feels comfortable, and even faintly hopeful in offering. “Perhaps...” She swallows her nerves. “Is there a particular technique you would like me to demonstrate?”

A small pause goes between them.

“Actually... yeah,” the Iolite says. “That middle set, you always get past my defenses within a few minutes. Can you show me how you’re doing that?”

Nacre could collapse from relief. A request is just a gentler order, after all. She dips her head in concession, then lifts her sword once more. And this time, whens he conjures the holographic projection from her gem, she conjures not herself, but a larger, more impressive shape. And she cuts the connection, holo-Iolite stands before her, wide shoulders and wild hair and, in shape, so very much like her. 

Nacre spares the barest moment to glance between and compare. The ghostly white of the projection does not suit the soldier’s form, not really, nor does it quite capture the sense of grounded weight she has. The Iolite herself, Nacre sees barely frowning, and she wonders if she has overstepped some bound in using her shape like this.

Only, Iolite does not speak. Nacre settles herself, and, recalling just how this gem fights, she simulates a short spar.

This round, like all others, she finds her way into the holo-Iolite’s defenses. She holds the pose and Iolite—the real one—frowns. “Again?”

Nacre nods, and dutifully does it again, keeping her movements crisp and clean. The spar repeats exactly as the last one did, and once more, she holds the end pose.

This time, she spares a proper glance towards the Iolite, who pulls a hand through lavender hair. “Can... can you explain what’s happening? I think I see it, but I want to make sure.”

That, too, is a command. It may be more words than she is accustomed to, but... Nacre nods, and the projection fizzes out for a moment, before resetting a few steps back. This time, she and holo-Iolite move with precise slowness. “An effective thrust,” Nacre explains, quietly, “is weighted in the hips. When a swordfighter’s shoulders are used to power the thrust, the entire body then comes forward, leaving the opponent with the advantage. She has only to deflect the oncoming blade, and the swordfighter is rendered immediately vulnerable, and stands the danger of falling onto her opponent’s sword.”

Another pause goes between the two of them, and in the silence, Nacre lets the projection dissipate into specks of light, and then, nothing at all. The very last of the glowing ribbons have faded from sight as the Iolite says, “Do you mind if I try it out, myself?”

“Certainly,” Nacre says, though she cannot conceive of just why it had been a question at all. She bows her head, nudges out, so subtly, a toe within her shoe. The selection rises from the floor—the heavier blades—and Iolite picks precisely the one Nacre knew she would: a hefty make, beautiful, and Iolite’s preferred pick. She takes on a starting stance as the circle dips back into the floor.

“Ready when you are,” she says. 

Nacre does not speak her reply. But she enters her own stance, and sculpts the gentle surprise out of her expression. She tries not to hope, and taps their blades together.

They spar.

(Quartzes, she knows, are huge, and as such, they tend to be heavy. But Iolite is not a Quartz. She is a soldier, made large like a Quartz, but nothing in her can replicate their steadfast, immovable weight. The more common heavy-weight soldiers, the _substitute Quartzes_  as they are sometimes called, strong as they may be, simply do not pack the same punch.

But it does mean they can move just a touch more quickly. Nacre suspects it is exactly that swift edge which has served a soldier like this through all of her training to this point.

That is to say; they spar. But as well, that familiar edge of exhilaration begins to creep up into Nacre’s throat. They fight. They _fly_.)

The moment comes when Nacre has, before, always taken her opening. She thrusts. Iolite catches her before her blade can come to rest. Their swords clash in a chime. They tangle. They stand nearly chest-to-chest, face-to-face, and were it a true battle, it is transparent who would crush who by virtue of size alone. 

Nacre has barely managed to slip back a step before she jumps, caught off-guard by Iolite’s joyous whoop. 

“ _Yes_!” she says, making a victorious fist with her free hand. “My _stars_ , I haven’t been able to wrap my head around that one, that was—oh, _yeah_.”

Nacre takes her pose, and finds herself fighting a smile. “I am happy to have been of service,” she says, and stars around, she is not sure she has ever meant it more. 

“Thank you.”

In the instant that follows, Nacre realizes that Iolite’s eyes are not black, as she had initially thought. They are deep violet, a shade more easily seen in a cooler light, when paired with the muted violet-blue of her skin. Nacre shakes herself, and the Iolite seems to remember how ludicrous the whole situation is, and sets her sword aside with a cough.

“I—um—I shouldn’t be here, I think,” she mumbles. “After hours and all that. But I’ll... I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It is the oddest thing. Her limbs are all numb and ringing, but inside her chest, it feels like the ricochet of a dropped sword, and the excited, discordant chiming of metal upon stone. “I look forward to continuing my training,” she says, because she cannot think of what else she could say. Because, after flight, a ship always comes back to rest on-planet.

“Right.” The Iolite hesitates before deciding, quite rightly, that it is perfectly appropriate to leave as she will. She walks away and her footsteps become distant, and Nacre listens to every single one of them. She knows how many it will take to see her out the door, and how many then to the warp pad. She needn’t look.

A step and a half from the exit way, she looks up anyway, just in time to see the barest flash of lavender.

—

“ _Finally_ ,” is what Rhodonite says, when training the following rotation sees Iolite at last besting the mid-set against the arena’s own Pearl. “Now, we can move on.”

Nacre feels a tickle in her chest. She spares the briefest glance upward, just in time to catch Iolite beaming—and sparing a glance for her, as well.


	3. /Out There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which they fall in love.

Nacre recalls very well, Rhodonite informing her that practice is the best form of instruction. And of course, she is a Commander, and the arena’s own instructor, the overseer of hundreds of learning soldiers, and she would know—she certainly has no reason to be wrong.

It’s only...

Rhodonite makes a very clear pass at Iolite, not long after that day, and Nacre happens to overhear. “It is as I say,” she drawls, “enough practice will eventually make a soldier of any gem.”

Iolite, in turns, looks her dead in the eye, and smooth as you please, says, “It sure will.”

The Iolite smiles. It is not a smile that is merely agreeing, or even convincing. It crinkles up the corners of her eyes, it settles into her very posture, puffs out her chest a little, it—it’s—

(As Rhodonite stands there, implying that the practice is what has secured this improvement, Iolite looks her straight in the eye, and knowingly lies. She looks at Rhodonite as though _eventually make a soldier_ applies to the very gem who preaches it. She says the words with a subtle, wayward glance at Nacre—as though the whole conversation ought to apply to _her_ —)

It strikes Nacre very suddenly that, the way Iolite is grinning, she looks as though she wants to _laugh_.

Nacre dips her head quickly. Eyes on the ground, expression sculpted, focus set. She keeps her wits about her, and concentrates—or else, she fears that she might laugh, too.

—

It is the sixth eve out from the Iolite’s unexpected after-hours drop-in. Perhaps she should know better by now, having been once caught, and knowing full well it could happen again—would, even—it was only a matter of time.

— 

And perhaps she should know better, but... practice makes perfect. Nacre walks through the flowing steps of the footwork, slowly at first, before gradually picking up pace, until she is nearly flying.

(It does not compare to the exhilaration she felt only six evenings ago, but she is beginning to think that, no matter how fast she manages to move, no matter how graceful the strides and the swipes, it will never quite compare.

Either she dances her spars alone, or she spars with another and keeps her eyes, feet and hands as smooth and plain as the arena floor.)

—

Giants shake the world. It was ages ago when first she felt the residual shudders of Quartzes’ footsteps, Nacre knows full well what it is to walk among the feet of those much larger, and grander, and to take every step mindful of the way the world moves around those behemoths.

One never expects to be shaken by the likes of their own.

Rhodonite enters the arena one fine day with her postures subtly altered: her back straighter, her smile, a touch more obliging. Nacre takes her pose, and it is fortunate, because the entrance of a General Quartz and her Pearl freezes her to the spot.

“I am flattered by your visit, General,” Rhodonite says, and though they are only coming down the steps, Nacre can hear them all the way from the floor. “I think you will be impressed by the progress of the recruits, and I am, of course, happy to hear all of your thoughts regarding the work that we do, here...”

The general is a striking, wide-shouldered Citrine, hair chopped shorter than the usual Quartz, everything about her angles and immensity. But Nacre’s gaze does not stay with her. As magnificent as she is, she is not half as world-shaking as the lovely creation that stands in her shadow.

This is a proper Pearl, the perfect kind, gem settled at the base of her throat in perfect mimicry of her owner. A Champagne, she is gently yellow, her outfit cut in a v-shape with points tapered out towards her shoulders, giving the illusion of wideness. Her form is slender and her airs are quiet, and—and at face value, she looks nothing like the gem to whom she belongs. But, by the same token, it is obvious whose image she was made in, and stars around, if she isn’t beautifully made.

She has her head demurely tipped down, but when she reaches the floor with her Citrine, she does glance up. Their gazes briefly pass over one another. She glances at the sword in Nacre’s hands, then glances at her again, with a strange look that Nacre, by virtue of being enough like her, can read. It is not a kind look. It is a look that asks, _what in the world are you for_?

A moment afterward, Nacre falls into the shadow of Rhodonite and the visiting General, and she, too, dips her head.

“So this is the curious little Pearl I’ve heard so much about.”

“A Nacre, in point of fact,” Rhodonite says. “She was always intended for utility, an arena is no place for opulence.”

“Quite. And her function is...”

“Exhibition of technique. Soldiers get sloppy, that is how we _lose_ them. Pearls, however, have perfect recall, and I see no reason not to make the most of that very attribute.”

Nacre can make out, from the corner of her eye, the way the Citrine spares a look to regard her. “Pearls are not made for fighting, you know.”

“Quite. She isn’t here to fight. She exhibits and executes technique for demonstration and training purposes. It is hardly as though we are intending to send her out into the field—soldiers belong in battle, whereas this Nacre belongs here. And here she will remain until the day she breaks.”

“ _Good_. I’ve been highly skeptical, Commander, of this whole thing...”

“Many have had their reservations,” Rhodonite patiently explains, “and I understand why. But I feel I have made my priorities exceedingly clear on just what roles this Nacre is to fulfill. My General—believe me when I say I hold as much respect for our armies as any gem could. I have no intentions of making a mockery of our soldiers by placing a half-baked Pearl beside them.”

“So a trinket she is, like any one of her kind should be.”

“Oh, perhaps I would not be _so_ liberal in my assessment. A trinket ought to be lovely, and—well—she certainly cannot compare to yours, can she?”

The two gems share a brief laugh, and Nacre watches as the barest flicker of attention passes over the Champagne Pearl’s face. She regards her owner from the corner of her eye, and she lifts her pale yellow chin. She is _proud_.

“The Nacre is a fixture, here,” Rhodonite continues, “and a very useful training implement, if I may say so—I don’t suppose you’d be inclined to give her a try?”

“No, thank you.” The Citrine sounds, now, more gently amused than anything. “I’m quite content to observe.”

“As you wish, my General.”

Perhaps Nacre ought to have listened more closely, seeing as she was just a primary object of discussion. But her focus was not there, and now that the moment is lost, the part that stays with her is, perhaps oddly, the bit about not comparing.

Recruits gradually pour in as the day progresses, and Nacre goes through the motions. Speak the proper greetings, and the offers of service and combat. Present the weaponry. She exhibits. She poses. She goes through one set, two, three—eventually, she is called aside to practice, as ever, with the gems assigned to her technical perfection, and even those pass in a blur. She bests three sets and makes silent note of those movements she still has to master.

But she is not wholly present. It does not take a behemoth to shake the world.

It goes near the same as it always has. The day closes. Rhodonite takes her leave, but joining her is the Citrine General, who looks upon the arena with approving eyes. Rhodonite looks better than satisfied, and Nacre, she reminds herself to be proud of this very place, which has earned such admiration today. This place to which she is beholden. To where she belongs.

The Champagne Pearl never does give her a second glance, after that first one. She stands always by her gem, a sweet echo of grandeur, and when the time comes, she leaves with the rest of them.

There are times, when parrying, that the force of the blow blocked shakes Nacre to her insides, sending a ringing sensation through her. Making her feel, somehow, hollow.

That, and an anxious itch, the want of a step—that is what she feels when she watches Rhodonite, the General, and the Pearl all take their leave. Watching the Pearl pass over the stair, and out the passageway, to the other side, to leave—something about it makes her quake.

Alone in the arena, she feels so, so small.

—

The day is not a complete loss. The hours go by, and she does not move. But as she stands upon the arena floor, staring up the stair and at the entryway, whose other side she has not seen since the day she first set foot into the arena... as she stands, she hears distantly the sound of a warp. She is already in her pose, but she straightens herself.

Through the entry, a flash of blue and lavender appears. Nacre blinks, but holds her ground, and waits until the gem has made it down to stand before her.

“You got me on that seventeenth set,” the Iolite says with a grin, and a happy, careless shrug. “You want to show me how you managed to kick my butt _this_ time?”

It is one part feeling, and two parts conscious decision—but slowly, Nacre smiles in return. With the tiniest of flutter of her eyelashes, she summons the swords from the arena floor.

They spar, and just like that, exhilaration settles into her like atmosphere to a planet’s crust.

—

“Hey,” Iolite says when they are finished, “Um.”

She has a funny way about pausing, Nacre has noticed. Not that this Iolite is un-soldier-like. On the contrary, she is so clearly a soldier in build and demeanor, both, that no one could possibly mistake her. But... as well, she _thinks_ about what to say. Nacre has not decided, in point of fact, whether that is a trait of Iolite’s own, whether it is a product of the situation, or whether it is simply required given the oddity of speaking to a Pearl.

( _Barely a Pearl_ , she reminds herself, gently.)

“Uh,” Iolite says, again, “look—I get it. This is off-hours, and I really... probably shouldn’t be here. But—” she waves a hand and grins, “—it’s okay. It’s my fault, right, I’m the one who keeps showing up, so... don’t worry about it.” After a pause, she gestures, and ducks her head as if that small little gesture could get them looking at one another, eye-to-eye. “You looked kind of... off, when I came in. Figured it was worried. Are you? Worried?”

Nacre blinks, a touch thrown, but shakes her head. “No,” she murmurs.

“Oh. Right, okay.” She pauses. “Was I imagining it? Am I just cracked, are you okay?”

“I’m—fine,” she says, because even if she could imagine another answer to give, she is not sure she would find the words for it.

But it seems to relieve the large violet-blue gem before her. Her shoulders widen, relaxing, and she grins once again, and looks more herself. Nacre likes it. Nervousness is quaint on a soldier, but easiness suits her better. “Good,” Iolite says, “good. In which case, call it preemptive, but seriously, don’t worry, okay? It’s on me. Rhodonite wants to slap my wrist, she can, she doesn’t scare me.” She grins, and gives a little wave. “I’ll see you.”

The last three words sound genuine, like the promises she hears exchanged sometimes when gems are being frank with one another. A shudder goes up her back, but she bows her head in acknowledgment, and says only, “Go well, until then.”

(Iolite smiles, and waves, and exits. And Nacre thinks, one day, they will get in trouble. Nacre is positive of it—she could not practice without being caught, and there will come a day still when they two are practicing, and then, they too will be caught. And when they are, Iolite may well try to take responsibility. But it will be her fault, for listening to a voice besides her overseer's, for saying words outside her granted vocabulary, for being weak-minded and poorly-made enough for such an infraction.

It would be better if the blame were passed wholly to her. It would protect one of them, anyway. Still... it is nice of Iolite to offer, and to regard her in this thing.)

—

(She does not know when, exactly, she began to think of her more often as _Iolite_ than as _the Iolite_.)

—

Her training progresses. She is improving all the time and soon, she suspects, she will be suited to exemplify any level of technical combat commanded of her, to the satisfaction of Rhodonite and everyone around.

It is an enthralling idea that carries her through many lonely night practices, and a few, too, with a partner to spar with.

Which is to say, Iolite’s off-hour visits are not consistent, but they are frequent, and it is so _good_ to have a different angle to parry against, a different shape of form to lunge at. It is difference, and surprise, and it makes Nacre want to laugh.

—

(It also prevents her from the odd habit she has taken up, sometimes. She remembers how haunting it had been, to read her designation, and order detail. Belonging to no-one. Looking like no-one. Until she came here, at least. And was she not made sleek like this arena? Is the floor they walk not smooth and flat as her own gem?

On occasion, these days, she pauses in her practice, and when no one is there to look, she slips down the floor. She runs her hands across the smooth arena ground, and then, she lifts her fingertips to her forehead, and slides her hand across the flat of her gem.)

—

Between the help of her trainers, and the occasional off-hour practice, she and Iolite both make magnificent strides. They are both practicing high-level sets these days, and after one particularly grueling evening exercise, Iolite waves off another round and takes her seat upon the first circle, at the floor’s edge.

“You’re probably saving my sorry excuse for a career, you know,” she informs Nacre with a large, beaming smile. “I’ve made it out of two tours, heck if I know how. Blunt force, probably. Lots of real Quartzes ready to soak up most of the glory. _Luck_. But you... I think you’re actually making an honest soldier of me. I’ve never fought this good.”

Iolite gestures with a turn of her head, and obediently, Nacre takes a seat primly beside her. "I am glad.”

“See,” Iolite turns her head, grins, points, “I think you actually mean that. I think Pearls are trained to say it whether they mean it or not, but I think you actually, honestly do.”

Nacre feels her face go a shade darker in happy self-consciousness, and dips her head. “I am.”

“Uh-huh.” Iolite turns her gaze forward again, and tips her head back in a posture that can only be called _lounging_. “I’m heading out on another tour, actually. Just a few years, turn of the next century. You think we can ace the expert levels by then?”

After a thoughtful hum, Nacre starts to smile. “I don’t see why not.”

“Good.” Iolite stretches. “’Cause if we manage, like I said, you'll have made me some kind of competent soldier, officially making _you_ the greatest asset this arena’s ever seen. Which is to say, I might just make it back from war on my own merit, and if I do, you gotta promise you’ll still be around. I need to stop by and get a spar in, for old time’s sake.” She pauses. “And, you know. To thank you.”

Nacre looks at her, studying her face. And then, slowly, she tips her head back, too.

“I will be here,” she whispers. “I will always be here.”

—

She looks at the stars one night, and it occurs to her with vivid clarity that there are other worlds out there, other colonies, hubs, all assortment of worlds, beacons of light across the systems. There are gems who will see them. 

That same ringing hollow feeling hits her hard, and leaves her reeling with a vertigo-like sensation. She gapes up at the great open sky and the arches of light around this very planet—she makes a small, awful, gasping noise, without quite meaning to—and tears gather up in her eyes, for no reason that she can make out.

—

She belongs here. It is a comfort. There is a place, a grand, beautiful place, which she echoes in glory, and to which she belongs.

One day she makes it halfway up the stair, eyes set wide upon the entryway. She does not pass any further than that. She thinks of the Pearl who walked, whose owner, too, walked. She wonders what that Pearl will see. She thinks of the stars.

She makes it halfway up the stair, and then, she skitters back down to the floor. Where she belongs.

—

It’s the shoulder. 

No. More to the point—it is that she has parried, and that the appropriate motion would be a back-step, a twist, a slide of their blades apart and the next movement. That is what the technique dictates.

That is not what happens. Instead, a Chrysoprase who is much larger than herself digs her heels in, and pivots. Her shoulder comes forward. Nacre has just enough time to make sense of the fact that _this is not a part of the set_.

A gem four times her own size slams her broadside.

She flies.

There is no chance for her to right herself, no chance for her feet to fumble and catch upon the floor. When she lands, it is hard upon one shoulder, where she skids, and rolls, and rolls. Somewhere along the way she loses hold of her sword and it is by luck alone that she does not slide over it and slice herself in two. 

When she jostles to a stop at last, it is with a hard jerk that lands the side of her head hard upon the arena floor. The world still feels as though it is spinning. With a terrified hand she reaches up, touching her gem. A moment, then another to press her palm flat over her forehead. No crack. No chip. No crack, no chip. Fine. She is fine.

With shaking hands, she pushes herself to stand. There is a chorus of snickers, loudest of all from the Chrysoprase, from across the arena ground. She puts her feet beneath her, and sets herself upon shaky knees, and trusts them perhaps before they are wholly ready to carry her back to her sword in a hurried scramble. It has been a fine day. The day is not even half-over, and it has been fine. 

It had been fine.

She stoops, face burning as she leans down to retrieve her sword. Over the snickers, she can hear Rhodonite snap, “Yes, yes, well done, but do recall you are here to learn the techniques, not to push your way brutishly through them. And for pity’s sake,  _do_  try not to damage arena property, would you?”

Nacre keeps her gaze down as she returns to her post, to the next set, the next spar. Before she lifts her gaze, she can see, from the corner of her eyes, Iolite’s hands, clenched at her sides.

—

The sound of the activating warp does not stop her, this evening. Nacre parry, parry, thrusts against some invisible enemy, too agitated even to conjure a holographic self to spar against. She glides through the set, more forceful in her arms than she ever has been. She is not flying, tonight.

Heavy footfalls pad their way down the stair, then come to rest not far from her. Nacre thrusts her last, then pulls back. She tries to sculpt her expression, but she can feel the frown settle between her brows.

“You okay?” Iolite asks.

Nacre lifts her chin, looking determinedly ahead. “I am not yet technically proficient, as I should be,” she says. 

“You—what?”

“I am not yet technically proficient, as I should be.”

The second time, when she says it, her voice trembles. She loses some of her resolve in that quiver, and her head dips. “Do you...” Nacre stops herself, and swallows. “Do you know... where I might focus my practice, to improve—?”

“—it wasn’t you.”

Nacre is so startled by the firmness in that tone that she lifts her chin again, and blinks right into Iolite’s stern face. “That wasn’t you,” Iolite repeats. “That was Chrysoprase being a useless clod, and trust me on this one, I’ve been assigned to squads with that facet once or twice, she’s...” She frowns more deeply, then gets down on one knee. Something about her voice softens as she presses on. “You are better than most soldiers I know. Maybe better than any soldier I’ve ever known. So she threw you—that’s just... it isn’t all technique on the battlefield. But it’ll help. And it’ll be her loss for throwing you when she could have been learning something with that dirt-brain of hers.”

Nacre glances away. It lasts for only a moment. She feels a tug upon her hand, and looks back in time to realize that it is Iolite’s palm closing around her own.

She is not even a Quartz, but her hand is immense.  Nacre’s disappears completely inside of hers.

“So forget the match for a sec, okay?” Iolite says. She tilts her head. “Are _you_  okay?”

Words fail her. Nacre opens her mouth, but nothing comes out, and at last, there is nothing for her to do but close her eyes, and nod.

“’Kay. Do... you _want_ to keep sparring? I’ll spar if you want the practice, I could always use more work. Or, hey, if you’re fine, if you want your arena all to yourself...”

There is something about the offer, and something, too, about the hour. When Nacre opens her eyes, the light catches just right. She is pink-tinted but in the late hour, the sky has a tinge of blue to it, and she could almost pass for lavender. By the same token, the sky is never so deeply dark with the warps across the sky—Iolite is lit enough that she appears at least as much violet as blue. Even in the right light, they will never pass for being the same shade, never, but...

Nacre looks up suddenly, and blurts out, “Will you tell me about your tours?”

“What?”

As Iolite stands there blinking at her, Nacre braces herself against her swaying spine and suddenly-weak knees. “I... I will always be here,” she manages. “I am not ungrateful. I am so happy to serve here as I do. But I—I came from the factory to here, and transit in coming was the only time I have ever seen beyond this place. Perhaps I would have thought to look more closely while I was still... but I...”

Nacre bites her lip. She waits to be scolded, or scoffed at, or anything. Instead, in the silence that follows, Iolite continues to watch her, and tentatively, Nacre says, again, “Will you tell me? What is it like, out there?”

For a few painful moments, Iolite says nothing. But she does not pull away, and when she does move, it is with a tug to Nacre’s hand, so that Nacre knows to follow. Iolite gently pulls her to the center of the arena, where she sits upon the ground, and where Nacre slowly follows.

With her free hand, Iolite points up at the sky.

“See that star? The red one? That’s all the way out in the beta arm, and you wouldn’t believe the planets out that way. One with more satellites than an aristocrat’s got guards. A few of the moons were already fairly dead, but you know, even when they’re nothing but dust, they reflect the light of the star, and they look so resplendent, you wouldn’t even believe. Like... well—a Pearl, actually. In the red sun... like a pink Pearl.”

Nacre follows where Iolite points. And with her head tilted towards her arm, her temple a scant few inches from Iolite’s shoulder, she whispers, “Tell me more.”

—

Within the year, Nacre and Iolite both complete their sets. The recruits all earn the praising approval of their instructor, with firm advice to widen their repertoire, and to continue sparring.

In a quieter moment, Rhodonite approaches Nacre, taps a fingertip beneath her chin, and smiles.

“Well done,” she says. And despite it all, Nacre actually does feel happy, and proud.

—

Iolite does not visit, the week before her deployment. 

Nacre remembers the date of it, though. She watches the galaxy warps, and she watches the sky for ships. She dare not make a guess as to which of the myriad of lights in the sky might be hers, but she watches, anyway.

—

She trains. She practices the sets, each when called for. She is technically proficient. Sometimes, still, she is thrown, but she knows the soldier’s types, now, and she knows that technique alone cannot get them through a war. She is better at predicting them, now, and better at catching herself before she can be tossed. She gets better, too, at dodging. 

After-hours, she watches the sky, more even than she’ll admit to herself.

—

Then, long after the the last recruits have left, long after Rhodonite has returned to her other off-site duties, as Nacre sits upon the floor of the arena, caressing one hand over the smooth flat of the ground... One night, a century later, she hears the warp activate. 

She stands in an instant. Once, ages ago, she made it halfway up the stairs, in fearful curiosity, watching after someone who left. Tonight, she is up to the halfway mark and beyond in a fraction of the time. Coming back is so, so much more important than leaving.

At the top of the stair, at the entryway, Iolite stands already beaming. Her appearance modifiers are altered, her hair does not quite sit the same, but it is unmistakably her. She starts to laugh and Nacre forgets herself entirely, breaks at her in a run, and collides right into a pair of wide open arms.

Vertigo takes her as Iolite spins her around and around, and it’s like flying. 

Iolite’s gem sits upon her shoulder, high upon her forearm. Nacre does not mean to set her hand there, but when they stop spinning in giddy circles, and when their laughter finally starts to taper off, Nacre is still held several feet off the ground, and her hands have settled, and Iolite has not stopped her, nor even drawn attention to the fact. Nacre blushes, but says nothing to it.

“Hey,” is what Iolite says at last. “Funny thing, I just got home from war, and I actually made it? Mind-blowing, who would’ve guessed. Anyway, I remembered, I promised to thank someone...”

“And spar,” Nacre reminds her, giddy and eager and—yes—exhilarated. “For old time’s sake. You said. Do you want to—?”

Iolite tilts her head up, and Nacre only realizes what she means to do when their foreheads touch. The nudge against her gem is the sweetest, kindest touch imaginable.

“Yeah,” Iolite says. “Yeah. I really do.”

Nacre could close her eyes from joy, but she does not. In this hour, this light, from just the right angle, if you look... the two of them could pass for almost similar shades, and you could almost think she belonged nowhere at all but here.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted on Tumblr, and can be found [here](http://fatalcookies.tumblr.com/post/138913760733/in-here).


End file.
